


one way trip to california

by FaithNoMoar



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Canon Compliant, College, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Goodbyes, Hurt/Comfort, If You Squint - Freeform, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sad, Sad Ending, also donald uris gets no rights, but the way we imagine what happens afterwards is not, but this as a standalone, is just, losers are mentioned - Freeform, no happy ending, reddie if you squint - Freeform, richie mentioned more significantly, thanks!, this fic is canon compliant, unless you read amber and i's other fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaithNoMoar/pseuds/FaithNoMoar
Summary: bill denbrough is leaving on a one way road trip to college in los angeles, california.stanley uris was supposed to be with him.instead, he's saying goodbye. unless he doesn't have to.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris
Comments: 6
Kudos: 31





	one way trip to california

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emberjaycos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emberjaycos/gifts).



> If you've read my fic 'letters from flights to and from atlanta' and amber (sedanley)'s 'a letter from home in los angeles', then you know how this ends up.
> 
> if not and you need a pick-me-up, i would suggest headed there after you've finished this!
> 
> this fic is based on things we've headcanoned and written together.
> 
> for amber, always the stanley to my bill.

Bill had packed nearly everything to his name into the back of Silver II.

Old photographs of himself and Georgie, the Losers, paperwork and maps were shoved into a folder in his glove compartment, while poorly folded flannel shirts took up the better part of the trunk, mixed with t-shirts and old denim and the rest of his clothes, padding the edges of his typewriter to make sure it wasn’t damaged on the journey West.

His things would be far less cramped if—one, he hadn’t insisted on taking practically everything he owned with him, and—two, he’d used any part of the back seat.

The first point was simple. Bill knew, somewhere deep in his gut, that he probably wouldn’t be coming back here. Sure, holidays were something, he’d try to find his friends again, but—he’d preferred to be safe and take everything that mattered on the first go. Besides, he was moving all the way across the country—as far away from Derry as he could physically go, from the coldest, most northeast part of the country to the warm desert of California’s southwest. The journey was long, and goodness knows when he’d get another chance to shove everything into his car.

The second was a bit more complicated—and had more to do with Bill Denbrough’s often heartbreaking optimism.

He’d taken his time saying goodbye to the other Losers. Beverly, first, when she’d last visited for their graduation in early June. Then Ben, a few short days later, when he’d left for a pre-college summer program—he wasn’t going to be back before Bill left. He’d gone the entire month of July without goodbyes—but next came Mike, who had to take a week-long trip towards the city with his grandfather and left three days ago. Richie and Eddie yesterday, when they’d spent the entire day in the clubhouse they’d outgrown, hoping that if they stayed there long enough, no one would ever leave—with Stanley.

He hadn’t said goodbye to Stanley yesterday. Partially because he’d been avoiding it. Because saying goodbye to Stanley felt permanent.

Mostly because he was still hopeful that Stanley would come along.

Going incredibly far west was a mutual goal. To get as far away from Derry and their bad memories as they could. Southern California had been Bill’s idea, after Stanley had complained one too many times about a chill in the air the prior fall. The warm weather had always seemed to suit Stanley, anyway—he’d always brush it off to Bill as a result of being a July baby. 

They hadn’t, at that point, discussed going to school together. It’d always been assumed. SInce the incident in the sewers, they’d been practically inseparable. And while some of the other Losers had other things they wanted to pursue, sticking together had actually seemed possible for Bill and Stanley. 

The University of Southern California had seemed perfect. A great writing program for Bill, an impressive accounting program for Stanley—not far from the beach, easy to explore Los Angeles, a short drive from this bird sanctuary Bill’s sure he’s found every single detail about. So they’d applied—Bill with his writing portfolio and Stanley with his ace grades—were accepted, and settled comfortably into the fact that neither of them would have to face the next four years alone.

Sure, they’d applied to other schools—out of pressure from their parents, _Stanley’s_ , mostly—and gotten accepted, but the day the USC letters came in, everything seemed to fall into place.

At least, for a week.

God, it was a good week.

Every day is clear in Bill’s memory—getting the large letters from USC on Monday and opening them together after school, coming in to classes Tuesday like the world was theirs—and riding on that high every day until they’d left each other on Friday for dinner at home.

The next day at the clubhouse, Stanley hadn’t come—but it was a Saturday. Bill hadn’t thought much of it at all, really. Every so often, Stanley would have family things to do on a Saturday, and the two of them had plans to sit down and talk about classes and housing options on Sunday morning, anyway.

It hadn’t even really been a full week. Because Sunday, everything came crashing down.

Sunday is when Stanley showed up their meeting spot to explain that Friday afternoon, he’d come home from school to find an offer letter from NYU in the mail. Friday night, his _father_ had found the offer letter from NYU—and they’d spent the better part of the night into the morning back and forth about how Stanley was dead set on USC, but NYU was better _and_ closer _and—_

Saturday afternoon, Stanley’s father mailed back his acceptance of the offer and the non-refundable deposit. Without asking him.

For a second, Bill Denbrough’s world stopped.

And then, he did what he always managed to do—start trying to bargain. He’d already sent in his money to USC, but he was willing to throw it away. He offered to just tag along with Stanley to Manhattan, try out writing for a while without a degree. It’s not like his parents would care much, anyway. Stanley insisted he couldn’t throw away the money, and he _certainly_ couldn’t let Bill just skip out on college at all on his behalf.

His next suggestion seemed more realistic—Stanley still had an offer letter from USC he could accept, and just—go. Money would be harder without parents to support him, but Bill already had plans to work through college, and when Stanley turned 18 in July, his dad couldn’t control him. He’d be an adult, and if he wanted to go to California, he could.

And Stanley _did_ want to go to California. That was hardly the issue. Bill knew that.

But while Bill’s parents couldn’t care less about him, Stanley’s parents...cared a lot. His mom was always kind, thoughtful, and always seemed to know what was wrong and how to fix it. His father was harsher, and his form of caring came through doing what _he_ felt was right for Stanley. He also hated Bill, even if he’d never say so to the teenager’s face, and Stanley wouldn’t say a word on the matter to his best friend. Bill just knew it.

That was the issue. Stanley was less like Bill in that he wasn’t about to just tell his dad to screw himself—he was more go-with-the-flow than Bill. Bill had reached a particular level of aloof when it came to his home life in the years since he’d lost Georgie, and lost his parents with him. Stanley couldn’t do that. It wasn’t in his nature. 

Still, Bill spent the better part of the next few months trying to convince Stanley to go along with his schemes—to agree to something that would keep them together for the next four years. It became almost a joke between them, with Bill exhausting every possible option over the four months between then and now. He buried the dread, the thought that he’d have to go across the country without Stanley under optimism and increasingly preposterous schemes.

They were best friends. The Losers all were, but there was something about Stanley—something about the curly haired, stern eyed boy with his rare smiles and fond gazes that Bill only saw every so often and treasured--that broke Bill’s heart to leave. Stanley, who he’d gathered brochures from the other side of the country on bird sanctuaries for. Who’d given him the typewriter that sat securely in the back of the car after their high school graduation in early June. 

_“Write your first book at school on it for me.”_ Stanley had said.

 _“I want you to be there when I do it.”_ Bill had wanted to reply.

 _“A-are you sure you’ll be o-okay getting ink all over your hands wh-when I make you read my d-drafts?”_ He’d said instead, a tiny smile on his face.

 _“Only because it’s you.”_ Stanley had replied, giving Bill four words he'd had on a loop in his head every day since.

They were just different. It was _different_.

And that’s why there was enough space for Stanley’s things left free in the back of Bill’s car. Why the seat in front next to him was open. Why he’d stolen the bag of dark chocolate covered almonds and the box of Cheez-Its from the kitchen before he’d left, tucked carefully in the glove department in case his friend wanted a snack for the road.

Because now it was August. Orientation started at the end of the month at USC, and Bill was leaving Derry for a three week road trip to Los Angeles. He’d pushed it to the last day he could without driving painfully long every day, or risking being late if he hit traffic or some other awful circumstance. And Bill couldn’t procrastinate with half-serious jokes about running away any longer.

Bill pulled Silver II up to the front of the Uris house, knuckles tight on the steering wheel as he sat there, staring at the front door for longer than he’d like to admit. Sure, it’s just his best friend—he’s walked up to the door of this house a thousand times. But he’s here to ask a big question that, in the back of his mind, he’s aware the answer could be _no_ to. And that would mean saying _goodbye_ to his best friend. Risking forgetting his best friend. Losing his best friend.

After a few shaky breaths and a prayer to whatever higher power was still looking out for him that Stanley would be home alone, Bill drags himself out of the car, fussing with his messy hair one too many times on the way to the door. It’s another few moments before he can bring himself to knock—but not long after he does, the door swings open—

Stanley.

Despite the circumstances, Bill can’t help the immediate small, if sad, smile that crawls across his face. “Hi,” He breathes, rocking carefully on his feet.

“Hi.”

There’s a stretch of silence that falls between them. It’s thick, and Bill hates it immediately. Silences between he and Stanley used to be comfortable—after all, the other boy wasn’t talkative, and they hardly ever needed words. This was heavy, and just….sad.

Stanley’s eyes clearly catch the car over Bill’s shoulder before meeting his gaze again. “That’s it?” Bill nods. “...So this is it.”

He swallows dryly, taking a look back at the car, too. Despite his stutter, Bill was rarely at a loss for words, but now—he had to say the exact right things. And nothing was coming to mind. “I m-mean—” Inhale. Exhale. “That’s—y-yeah, that’s—that’s my car. W-with my things.”

Another beat passes, and Bill could beg Stanley to say _anything_ right now. He doesn’t, though—Bill’s best friend has always been hard to read for everyone else, even if, for Bill, it was usually easy. Right now, though, Bill couldn’t get anything.

Finally, he breaks the silence himself, unable to sit in it any longer. Unable to stop himself from going out on a limb. Unable to stop his voice from cracking vulnerably as he suggest, “Th-there’s still room, though—”

And that’s when Bill is able to read Stanley again—the look on his face that screams that he knew this is where the conversation was going, because as well as Bill knows Stanley, Stanley knows Bill, too. “Bill, you know I _can’t—_ ”

But Bill can’t bring himself to even stop at this point. It’s a habit he has when he gets nervous—the words just keep pouring out. “Th-there’s plenty of space, and—I g-got snacks, and we could—we could g-go to New York, even, I have some m-money, I told you, I c-could write and support m-myself—”

“ _You_ can’t—”

“—Or we could r-run away to California. I mean, you’re s-so smart USC would still t-take you, and it’s not even really r-r-running away since we’re both eighteen n-now, right? There’s nothing s-stopping you, really—besides, you’ll h-hate New York, it’s so _cold_ like i-it is here, and you hate the c-cold—you’re always f-freezing—” His voice is trembling at this point—like he’s on the verge of tears, but he knows that if he stops, he’s conceding. That Stanley won’t be coming. And that this is a goodbye conversation.

“—Bill, we talked about this—” Stanley retorts, half-heartedly exasperated, a small frown on his features, just a hint of a crease in his brow.

“—Y-yeah, and I don’t get why you aren’t e-even trying, or giving me an i-inch here, or even giving us a ch-chance—”

“—And I don’t get why you won’t let it _go—”_ Stanley’s interruption, voice crack and all, finally stops Bill’s rambling in its tracks, his heart sinking deep into his stomach.

Of course, Bill knew why he wouldn’t let it go. He’s known for longer than he’s willing to admit. He’s known since the rainy night in early April he went to Richie’s house at some obscenely late hour, when he was still processing the concept that he and Stanley might not be going to college together after all. Trying to understand, beyond the fear of forgetting—a fear that applied to all of his friends—why, exactly, he and Stanley were so different.

Richie understood—it was the same way that he and Eddie were different. It was understood, in the greater group of the Losers. And he shared the same fear—there hadn’t even been a chance that he and Eddie would be attending the same college. They were already locked into schools states away from one another.

Bill was in love with Stanley.

That was it.

That’s all there’d been to it for a long time, even if Bill had only realized it a few months ago. He’d kept the thought close to his chest—because Derry was _Derry_ , and god, they only had a few months left here before he was off in some big city where maybe, just maybe, people would care less that he daydreamed about holding Stanley Uris’ hand. 

Of course, he couldn’t just say that, now—only stand, slightly heartbroken and somewhat betrayed on his best friend’s porch. This isn’t how things would end. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t just say goodbye _fighting._ “—C-can—can I come in, and we can—we can t-t-talk about it?”

Stanley seems to consider that, and Bill, for a moment, is back to the slightly optimistic person he was in the car, before— “I… I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“Oh.”

A beat.

Maybe there’s an explanation. “A-are—are your p-p-parents home?”

“—No.”

“ _Oh_.”

“—I’m sorry, Bill.” It finally comes out—and feels final. Like there’s no changing Stanley’s mind at this point. Bill knows how stubborn Stanley can be. He’s particular, and resolute, and Bill _loves_ that about him. He just...doesn’t love it right now.

“I-i-it’s okay.”

It’s not.

The tears Bill had been risking as he’d rambled before were blatant, now. For as much as he worked to be the stoic leader in front of their friends, Stanley was who Bill allowed himself to take off the mask for. In the same way, Stanley allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of Bill. Together, they were safer. It’d always felt that way, at least.

Bill takes another deep breath in some sad attempt to compose himself just before Stanley speaks again, a touch of his quiet humor in his voice. “We’ll have letters, though. What do you think I gave you that typewriter for?”

Bill cracks a small smile. “—I th-thought that was for my n-novel.”

“Well, that too,” Stanley teases back gently. Bill feels slightly more whole. “But, we’ll write. And I’ll see you over the holidays—when I expect a draft of that book.”

“Promise?” Bill practically whispers. He’d always taken promises very seriously—and aimed never to make one he wasn’t completely sure he could keep.

“Even if my dad won’t be very happy about it, I promise.”

There’s a part of Bill that thinks Stanley’s father’s already gotten enough out of this whole situation, so really—he couldn’t care less if he’d be unhappy about the holidays. The other part of him, the part he’s buried deep, deep down knows that he and Stanley can’t keep this promise. Not if what happens to everyone who grows up here, leaves here, happens to them, too.

He ignores both of those parts, and just gives Stanley a small smile he knows his best friend can see straight through. The tears fall, then—because now it’s real, now this really is one of those _goodbye_ talks, even though Bill refuses to say it aloud. Saying goodbye feels like making an assurance that they’ll never actually see each other again.

Before his mind can even make out what’s happening, Stanley’s hugging him—and Bill can’t even stop himself from relaxing into the other boy’s embrace, gripping him back tightly, and _sobbing._ Letting go of four months of acceptance that he’d buried under schemes and optimism and the false hope that this was somehow going to be able to fix itself, that he and Stanley were going to run off to California together like nothing had happened and leave Derry behind for good.

“I’m wrinkling y-your shirt—” He practically whimpers through a quiet laugh into Stanley’s shoulder when the adrenaline wears off, reluctantly pulling back just slightly and doing everything in his power to not think about the idea that this could be the last hug he and Stanley share. “And getting t-tears all over it.”

“It’s okay,” Stanley insists gently—his own face just puffy enough that Bill could believe he hadn’t been the only one crying in their embrace. “Only because it’s you.”

And there it was again—those words that had been giving Bill the smallest of hopes over the last few months that maybe, just maybe, his feelings weren’t one-sided. He dwells there for a moment, still half holding his best friend—and for a moment, he’s weak. For the briefest moment, he thinks, maybe, he sees Stanley look at his lips. He thinks, maybe, he could lean in. That maybe they’ve both been hiding from something so much bigger for so much longer than either of them are willing to admit—

In another world, he kisses Stanley. He kisses him, and Stanley kisses back—and they go upstairs to pack Stanley’s things away and then they drive off to Los Angeles, and they get to live together for four years, and hold hands on the beach, because the big cities don’t care as much if you’re _gay_ or not. And Bill works six different part-time jobs to save up money in secret, so when they graduated, they never have to go back to Derry again. And they're happy.

But in _this_ world, the moment passes.

Bill steps back, throat tight. The words come out weak, but smooth.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to come with me?”

They both laugh, because it’s a joke again. It could’ve always been a joke in Stanley’s eyes. Bill’s not sure. He’d always been a little bit serious.

“— _Bill_ —”

“—I know.”

The silence is slightly more comfortable this time as Bill steps back further down the path. It’s not happy, but—it’s acceptance. It is what it is. C’est la vie. Such is life.

“Drive safely—” Stanley calls after him, and Bill nods quickly. “I’ll see you over the holiday. You’d better have something for me to read.”

“I w-will—” Bill replies without hesitation, making his way to the sidewalk and stepping into the street by the driver’s side door of his car. It was packed. It felt empty.

“Promise?”

He can’t keep that promise. Bill knows he can’t—because there’s a part of him he isn’t even aware of that knows that this is the last time he’s ever going to see Stanley Uris again. He just hasn’t accepted it yet. Goodbye still feels too real for the boy who doesn’t know it truly is goodbye.

 _I love you,_ he thinks, but doesn’t dare say aloud.

“I’ll see y-you later,” He replies instead, giving one last wave before getting into the car and truly, finally leaving home behind.

**Author's Note:**

> check out 'letters from flightsl to and from atlanta' and then 'a letter from home in los angeles' by sedanley if you need some warm feelings after that. again, this fic would be nothing without the stanley to my bill and this aggressive, rich world we've built for them over the last two years. <3
> 
> please feel free to leave comments and kudos if you're so inclined!


End file.
